Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive (4 page)

Jaime’s tribe had been lost to smallpox when he was still very young. He had worked as a fisherman, a farmer, and a smithy. But mostly Jaime had been a bandit along the roads between Port of Spain and the British fortress of Picton.

Since the curate had led him to the Savior, Jaime had also served as Falconer’s spy.

Falconer again bowed his head and said a prayer for yet one more soul sent on ahead of him. He felt an uncommon burning to his chest. He had so very few friends.

Felix let him be for a time, then said, “The official word is that bandits are plying the northern Paria roads again. For those who know Jaime’s past, they claim it was a fitting end.”

Falconer coughed lightly to clear the blockage in his throat. “They will use this as an excuse to close the road.”

“It has already happened. Two garrisons of soldiers patrol the roads leading to Pitch Lake, and another two have been sent to Rio Claro and Sangre Grande.”

Which meant the governor’s men must have decided that Jaime was not the only one endangering them and their secrets. “I must move swiftly to learn what Jaime discovered,” Falconer said.

“You must do nothing.” The curate hissed his urgency. “What if they already suspect you?”

“My merchant status should protect me.”

“Don’t talk utter nonsense. Jaime was acting on official church business. Which means they will stop at nothing to keep us from divulging their secrets.”

Falconer studied his friend, the man who had done what no one else ever could. The curate had spoken to his soul and shared with him the gift of eternity. Even now, with a third of their little band gone and the danger surrounding him, the curate showed no fear whatsoever. Only concern for his one remaining friend. Falconer asked, “What would you have me do?”

“Leave,” Felix urged. “Take the next ship leaving harbor. Make your way to England.”

“But our case is not fully made!”

“What good will knowing more do if we all perish?” The curate’s grip was rock solid upon Falconer’s arm. “Do you have the documents at hand?”

“Buried by the tree where I tethered my horse.”

“Take them and flee!”

“And you?”

“If I am seen to depart, all will know what is about. But you travel throughout these waters as part of your business.”

“I can’t leave you—”

“And I’m telling you, my joining you would risk everything.” The curate leaned closer. “I have never given you an
order. Not one in all the years. I have asked many things but never commanded. But I am charging you now. Retrieve the documents and depart. Go to England. Find someone we can trust with what we know, someone who will help you fit together the final pieces. Then make your case before Parliament.”

“But the only people I know in England are tavern keepers and wenches! I haven’t been there since—”

“You will go and you will ask and you will be certain before you move.” The longer they talked, the more insistent became the curate’s tone. “My own contacts are ten years old. Who knows whether they have been turned. We hear rumors of such and see the same happening here. You must take great care and move only when you are certain.”

“Certain of what? And of whom?”

“The only name I am sure of is William Wilberforce. This man can be trusted. But take care not to bring danger onto Wilberforce’s head! He is old and very ill, so I’m told. And many have abandoned him. Take great care in how you approach him. In the meantime, do nothing,
say
nothing, until you make this contact. Only him can you trust, and those to whom he points you.”

Slowly Falconer shook his head. “I am the man of action. I follow your lead. We have succeeded thus far because of your wise head.”

“And I tell you again. You are too hard on yourself. You refuse to accept what all others see. You must—”

The rear doors boomed open. The noise was all the warning Falconer required. He slipped from his seat and crouched upon the floor.

The curate rose to his feet and stepped into the central aisle. Falconer lowered himself to his belly and slipped under the next pew. Hopefully the newcomers’ sudden dash from sunlight to the church’s gloom would grant Falconer precious seconds to disappear.

As Felix stepped toward the wide open doors, one of the intruders called, “Who’s that there?”

“A simple curate, good sir. Coming to offer you God’s greeting in His holy place.”

“A curate, eh. Never did understand the term. Meant to be only half a priest, are you?”

“I entered the service late in life, sir. And school was never a place where I felt welcome.”

“Then you and I share that, at least.” Boot steps scraped forward. “Wait, I know you. You’re that fellow from the church north of town. My overseer is churched by you.”

“Robert,” the curate offered, giving the name a French intonation. “A fine man.”

“He was, until you filled his head with such stuff and nonsense as would choke a horse. Now he won’t carry a whip and he insists upon my slaves resting one day a week. He’s after them being churched as well.”

Falconer knew the planter’s voice, having heard it any number of times. He had even sat next to him once at the governor’s table, guests at a banquet the governor had given the previous winter. The planter, with a girth as large as his voice, was known as a hard man, the sort who was certain every opinion he held was not only the right way, but the
only
way. Which was very dangerous, as the planter held the power of life and death over 457 slaves. Falconer knew such numbers because he had made it his business to know.

Putting together a list of slaves and their owners was not what placed Falconer in danger. Owning slaves was not a crime anywhere in the British empire. But the
trade
in slaves had been outlawed for a quarter of a century. No person could be captured, traded, or sold into servitude. Or so the law said.

Falconer knew differently. As did his mates. It was their gathering of evidence to prove trafficking in slaves still existed that made John Falconer a threat. The day Falconer’s enemies identified him as the man who could testify against them would be his last. Just as had happened to Jaime.

“All God’s children deserve a chance to see the light, sir,” the curate replied. “Even your slaves. Surely you agree—”

“I agree with nothing you say,” the planter lashed out. “You and the rest of your ilk.”

Falconer continued his snaking progress across the stone floor. He was three pews from the curtained archway, where the priests entered for the Eucharist, when his danger-honed senses warned him. He rolled forward until his entire body was beneath the next pew, linked his feet and hands around the seat, and hefted himself off the floor.

He heard Felix say loudly, “Did you lose something, sir?”

“Aye, that I did” came the grunting reply.

The curate must have lowered himself so that he was crouched alongside the planter and could cast his voice along the stone flooring. “Are you certain it was here in God’s house?” Falconer heard the words with their inherent warning from his precarious position beneath the seat.

“All I know, Curate, is you’re talking overloud for a man standing beside me. And I could have sworn you were addressing another man when I entered.”

“It is not fitting to swear anything in God’s house, sir. Some would say anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Aye, so I’m told. Answer me this, Half Priest. Why are you working so far afield from your assigned church?”

“I seek to do God’s work wherever I am called, sir.”

“As slippery an answer as ever I have heard.” The boots scraped again. The planter called to his mates, “Search the house.”

“Sir, I must protest.”

“Protest all you like, Curate. I’ll do as I please, here and elsewhere. The governor’s interested in finding a certain man, same as me.”

“Give me his name, sir, and I’ll be better able to aid you in your quest.”

“Tell me who it was you were speaking with when we entered.”

“With God,” Falconer’s friend said gently. “I seek as always to draw nearer to my Lord and Savior.”

Falconer watched from his hanging perch as a pair of boots stepped down the side aisle, pausing now and then to search the pews. Then from behind them came the sound of steel scraping upon steel. Falconer’s entire body tensed as he heard the planter say, “I’ve never shaved a curate. Is that as nasty a sin as filleting a priest?”

The approaching boots turned and took a half step away. Clearly the planter’s mates were taken aback by a threat upon a curate. Falconer took this as the best chance he would have and lowered himself to the floor. He crept breathlessly to the end of the pew. Moving at lightning speed, he slipped across the aisle and behind the door-curtain. From this safe perch he peered out at the sanctuary through a slit in the drape.

His old friend and mentor said, “Sir, I remind you where you are.”

The planter was dressed in tropical fashion, a loose cotton shirt open at the neck and gaping partway down his hairy chest. People of polite society considered such manner of dress most uncivilized. But the planter was a man utterly at ease upon the estate he ruled as a fiefdom, where the town’s morals were a world removed.

The planter held a curved dagger to the curate’s throat. He twisted it slightly so that it flickered in the candlelight. Clearly the man was enjoying himself. “If you have any interest in seeing the light of another day, Curate, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

Falconer felt his entire body clench with the effort it required not to hurl himself through the curtain and into the church. Never in his entire life had he run from a fight, much less from a friend in need. Yet he knew what the curate would ask of him.

Falconer saw Felix smile and realized he observed a man far stronger than he would ever be. He also sensed the smile was
directed at him standing there behind the curtain. He heard his friend say, “The death I fear is one you could never inflict.”

“Bah, more priestly nonsense!” The planter swept the knife across the curate’s throat, and Falconer almost shouted his terror at the prospect of losing his last friend. But the blade had flashed by without touching the skin. The planter jabbed it angrily back into the sheath at his belt and snarled, “All your kind should be tied to the post and lashed to submission.”

“Our kind, sir? You mean the fellowship of believers?”

“You know exactly of whom I speak.” The man wheeled about and bellowed, “Did you find him?”

“There’s no one about.”

“Search harder! He was sitting beside the curate, I tell you!” Falconer heard footsteps hastening down the stone hall behind him. He slipped into the space between the curtain and a cupboard, crouched down low as he could, and willed himself to meld into the shadows.

The approaching priest was in far too great a hurry to notice Falconer. He swept through the curtains and cried, “Who dares disturb the peace of God’s house?”

“I am on the governor’s business!” The planter was too far gone to quell his rage. “We seek a traitor!”

Thankfully, the priest did not back down. “You will lower your voice and leave this place, or I shall have the soldiers arrest you!”

The planter snarled in frustration and waved his men back. As they turned toward the doors, the planter said, “I haven’t finished with you, Half Priest.”

“Go with God, sir,” the curate softly replied.

When the nave was empty save for the two men, the priest demanded, “What was that talk about a traitor?”

But Felix simply repeated the words, “Go with God.” Falconer slipped from his hiding space and raced away. He had no question but that the words were meant for him.

Chapter 3

The balcony to Serafina’s room was at the far corner of the house away from Saint Mark’s Square. Like most of the older villas fronting main canals, the house dropped straight down into the blue waters. The finer homes like theirs were constructed of close-cut stone, making it nearly impossible for a thief to scale the wall from a tethered boat. These façades formed giant mosaics shining brilliantly in the sun. Serafina’s balcony railing was made from three shades of limestone and bordered by late-blooming wisteria. From the water it looked like a treasure chest with an open lid. That was what Luca had told her. A treasure box that contained one lovely jewel.

Luca’s hand appeared on the ledge. He had a sculptor’s hands, broad and flat and very strong. Serafina felt she was more than in love. She lived and breathed to be with this man. He was in her every waking thought and all her most wondrous dreams.

Luca leveraged himself upward until his face came into view. His dark eyes shone with such intensity she thought they were looking to her very soul. “Are you alone?”

Serafina heard the door downstairs close. There was no mistaking the sound. Their front door was more than five centuries old and carved from cypress. The noise echoed through the front hall and up the stairs and through her own closed door. Luca heard the sound as well. His eyes widened in alarm and he began to ease himself back down.

“No, my darling, no! Mother has left. We’re alone.” She rushed to the balcony’s edge and gripped his arm.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, yes!” She urged the young man up and over the stone railing. Now that he was this close, she could not bear to wait another moment. “Hurry!”

“Perhaps I should come another time—”

“No, no, this is fine!” In her frantic haste to hold him there, she wrapped both hands around his upper arm.

“Really, it’s better if we wait—”

“I have spent too many days waiting,” she implored. Then she saw his smile. “You were teasing me!”

“Only a little.”

Serafina stepped away and teased him in return. “You are dreadful. All the other girls were correct about you.”

Luca inspected his reflection in the balcony door. His dark hair fell long and loose upon his high starched collar. He tightened the silver catch holding the white scarf at his throat. “Whatever do the young
signorinas
say about me?”

“I shan’t tell you now,” Serafina returned archly. In truth, the young ladies in her art class spoke endlessly about Luca di Montello. Much of what she had learned about him had come from their gossip. Though Serafina never joined in, she had listened intently to their every word.